When He Loved Me
by ThePartingoftheWays
Summary: Inspired by the song, 'When Somebody Loved Me," from Toy Story 2. Sherlock and OC child from a one night stand. "I was five. I didn't really understand why I was here, and Mummy wasn't. They'd told me that she'd had to go away for a bit, and that I had to stay with my Daddy. I was very sad, and I cried for a bit, but then I realised… Daddy? I'd never had a Daddy."
1. Chapter 1

Hi there! This is my first fanfiction. I've been a lurker on the site for a long time, but this idea simply wouldn't go away after listening to, 'When Somebody Loved Me,' by Sarah McLachlan (Jessie's song from Toy Story 2). It was a songfic at first, but then I read the rules - so, instead, this is inspired by that song. It is planned to be a three-parter including this, which is more of a prologue really, to set things up to suit the song. This is set pre-series.

I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters.

Here we go!

* * *

I was five. I didn't really understand why I was here, and Mummy wasn't. They'd told me that she'd had to go away for a bit, and that I had to stay with my Daddy. I was very sad, and I cried for a bit, but then I realised…

Daddy?

I'd never had a Daddy. Other children did, but Mummy hadn't ever answered my questions about why I didn't. She'd told me that it didn't matter. But there I was, in front of a door leading toward _him. _ A strange, nice lady named Angela stood beside me holding my case, and she stepped forward to knock three times.

We didn't wait a moment before it opened, and there he was. I had to look quite far up to see his face – he was very tall. His dark hair was curly, the same shade as mine, and his eyes were blue. Mine were too, but more like Mummy's. At least, that's what she had told me. It wasn't his appearance, however, that surprised me. It was how unfriendly he looked.

I gulped.

"This is Rosemary." There, the first time I heard his voice. Low and smooth. It wasn't scary – sort of nice.

"Yes, this-"

"It wasn't a question."

Angela didn't seem to like the interruption. It did seem a bit rude. She was silent as she picked up my suitcase and handed it over to him.

"You've signed all there is to sign. She's all yours." The nice lady turned to me. "Goodbye Sweetie."

"Goodbye…" My small voice wavered under the stare I could feel as well as see when I turned back.

And then she left me alone with him, the unsmiling man who was my Daddy.

* * *

The first time that I made him smile was when I asked him to read me a bedtime story. The Three Little Pigs. Mummy used to read it to me nearly every night – it was my favourite. I plopped down onto the couch and looked at him. He was playing the violin again and didn't seem to even notice me. His eyes were closed, and he was completely absorbed in the music made from the small instrument. It was pretty, but boring. I waited for the pause that eventually came along.

"Please read to me," I asked shyly. It had only been a week, and he hadn't shown much friendliness so far. I had plenty of reason to feel insecure around him.

"I was busy composing," he huffed. "Helps me to think." I blinked, started to shrink away, when he took it from me with a sigh. "Oh, alright." I was relieved by that simple action and statement.

I wasn't too sure of whether I not I was allowed to get close. But as he read, I felt myself getting sleepy next to him. So I scooted close to Daddy for the first time, hesitantly snuggled into his side. He didn't push me away, simply paused for a moment before continuing in his calm, reassuring voice. As he read, my eyelids drooped. I wrapped an arm around his, buried my face into his sleeve.

I peeked sideways, and saw it. The small smile pushing his cheeks outward slightly. And I felt better. Maybe he wasn't such a scary monster after all. I closed my eyes.

"The End," he finished, as I slipped away.


	2. Chapter 2

This second chapter deals with the first two paragraphs of the song. I've gone over this a couple of times, but I still feel it's a bit clumsy in places. I apologise for that.

I don't own Sherlock.

* * *

I giggled, tugging at his overly-smart, buttoned-up shirt.

"Let's go and get ice cream!" I suggested before breaking into giggles again. My Daddy looked down at me, face breaking into a smile that I didn't see him wear around anyone but myself. Not even Uncle Mycroft, his brother.

"Oh, alright, Rose," he relented, his deep voice the opposite of my high-pitched one. We both turned toward the front door, just a couple of metres down the hallway. A mischievous idea formed inside my head and was put into action before I even had time to think about it.

"I'll get outside before you!" I shouted gleefully, before tearing off – I knew I was cheating, but he was much bigger than me. I heard him chuckle, and I looked over my shoulder to see him catching up.

I leapt for the door, but he caught me, and my feet left the ground as he swung me around.

"Gotcha!" he growled into my ear. And together we collapsed into helpless laughs, weak at the knees.

* * *

Sometimes Daddy looked sad.

He didn't really show it, but I knew whenever he was. He would hold a stick called a cigarette between his fingers, blow out bad-smelling smoke. I would cough, but still go up to him. I would climb up and into the chair, clutch at the cigarette in an attempt to stop his habit. He was trying to give up smoking, I knew that much. But sometimes, when things weren't so good, he would give in.

"Don't be down, Daddy. Think about… Think about a mystery!" I piped up. He loved to solve clues and puzzles; he was oh so clever. I could see the passion and excitement in his eyes whenever something new came along, whenever his cellphone rang and there was something for him to do. I wanted to see that, not the sadness lurking behind his blue eyes.

His lips twitched around the smoke-stick, and his head turned toward me. Daddy mutely put his free arm around me, pulled me close. He continued smoking, but I hoped that he at least felt a bit better.

* * *

"Rosemary, it's time that you learned how to defend yourself."

Daddy had just recovered from being hurt by some bad guys. He was really sore still, and I could see bruises on his neck. I knew that I should learn what I could from him. I didn't want that – or worse – to happen to me. I was eight, but I knew that there were people who might want to hurt me in the world.

I knew what happened to Mummy now. And I cried and cried when he finally told me. He held me, and talked to me, comforted me when I woke up from nightmares. I had to be able to stop someone if they tried to do the same to me, or to someone I loved. I had to be able to fight.

We trained together. Daddy taught me where to hit on the lower body. How to use my size to my advantage. How to duck and twist and jump, when to give in and when to continue on fighting. How to talk to someone pointing a gun at your head. He tied my hands together, and showed me how to get free. And I knew he did it all because he loved me.

Afterwards we would collapse next to each other, breathless from all the exercise. A comfortable silence would settle between us, pants producing little puffs of steam, just as if we were dragons.

Just he and I together.

"Rose, if anyone ever takes you… Remember that I'll come for you, no matter what. Don't give up hope." He looked at me directly, and I too turned my head to face him. "Tell them that Sherlock Holmes is on his way, and they'd better not harm a hair on your head."

I was slightly taken aback by the power in his voice, the seriousness with which he spoke. But I nodded, feeling slightly safer in the world with knowing that I had him to protect me unconditionally.

* * *

I was nine when I first saw my father cry.

"I-I'm sorry Sherlock, none of us- we never thought- his security was so strong-"

"Shut up, Lestrade, and get ou-out!" he spat out, voice trembling. It sounded like he was going to cry.

My Dad, cry?

Lestrade, a man who often called for my Dad's help, gave me a sympathetic smile and a pat on the head. I dumped my schoolbag, hesitantly crept forward. I didn't know what was happening; why Lestrade and my Dad were looking so sad.

"Dad, what's going on…?"

"Your… Oh God." I was sure that the teeth biting into his lip were going to tear the delicate skin there.

"Your Uncle. Someone shot him, straight through the h-head," he choked out. "Mycroft…" He dropped onto the couch, let his hands cover his face as he sobbed freely. His fingers slowly splayed out as they travelled up, through his hair. He was hunched over, convulsing with grieving sobs. "He can't be- Mycroft can't be dead…"

My Dad and uncle had always seemed to simply tolerate each other, but even at nine I could see that they still loved one another. And Uncle Mycroft would look after Dad and I, dropping off groceries and the like every now and then. He cared, but he just didn't show it in person. Now he was gone.

I started to cry as well, climbing up beside him. Suddenly he was clutching me in a tight embrace, so tight that I almost couldn't breathe. It was like he was making sure that I wasn't going to leave, that I wasn't going to slip away too. His face was wet against my cheek.

"Never leave me, Rose. Promise me that you'll never leave me," he whispered feverishly into my ear.

"Never," I whispered back.


	3. Chapter 3

Third and final chapter is here! It may still be polished up a bit, but I think it's generally done.

* * *

Dad got drawn more and more into his cases after Mycroft died, and he paid less and less attention to me as I grew older. People had started to comment on how much I looked like him – I guess I always had, with my dark mop of curls and thin frame. But even I had noticed in the mirror how my eyes had lightened, how my face was slowly becoming angular and sharp.

I was ten when I saw the bloody needle and empty syringe on the table in front of him, his head tilted back, an unfocused smile on his thin lips.

I was a detective's daughter – of course I knew about drugs and their effects. I had been planning to show him my math's marks, like a normal kid. It didn't seem important anymore. I was always going to feel inferior next to him in any case. More important was the state he was in.

"Dad?"

No answer. Strangely, I felt hurt. He'd been paying next to no attention to me for months now. All the time, he was playing that damn violin or wandering his mind palace. He was a genius and I felt like an idiot. Now he was doing drugs in front of me, to help his mind solve his cases. Not even bothered with the human living with him. He was beginning to drift away, and every time I reached out to hold onto him, he slipped through my fingers. But I shoved my feelings aside, walked forward.

"You can't keep on doing this, Dad," I murmured. "If you don't stop now, you never will." I picked up the evil syringe. "Please."

He moved his head, stared at me without recognition for a couple of moments. Then he blinked, seemed to come back and shrugged.

"I'm thinking," he said simply, voice strange and slightly slurred.

I wanted to tell him that thinking was going to kill him, but I couldn't quite bring myself to say the words.

* * *

"When was the last time you hugged me, _Sherlock? _When was the last time you told me that you loved me?"

I choked out the pain of the last two years in a ragged accusation, hurt spilling out in my voice. He hadn't spoken to me properly in so long, and it had dug deep into my heart, created an aching pain. I felt sad, angry and rejected. And that buried anger needed to come out. I couldn't even call him, 'Dad,' anymore. He hadn't been a Dad to me for a long time.

"I believe it was…" He frowned ever so slightly. I stared at him, fists clenching. My jaw joined them. The great Sherlock Holmes – even he couldn't recall the last time he told his child that he loved her, because it was so long ago.

"You're not a father anymore. You're not even a person. You're a machine. And… Sherlock Holmes, I hate you."

I let that hang in the air for a few moments before I turned on my heels and ran out of the living room, down the hallway, and through the front door. It was raining heavily, as well as dark outside.

I didn't care.

As I ran, I thought over my words. He didn't care for me anymore, and didn't seem to even consider me a daughter anymore. Maybe I did hate him. I had to get away from his indifference.

I slowed to a walk, sighed heavily as my sobs subsided. Salty tears mingled with the freshwater of rain, and I was sodding wet. I didn't know what to do. Everything had changed since Mycroft had died. My father started to restrain his emotion. I noticed how he grew colder, until he basically ignored me. He probably didn't want to get hurt again, but in that process he was hurting me.

I wasn't sure where to head now. I didn't want to go back. The police station would still be open – maybe I could ask Lestrade to let me sleep on his couch for tonight. He was nice, and he knew how Sherlock was, how he'd changed. I paused for a moment to orientate myself.

That was my mistake.

Someone grabbed my arm from behind, and I reacted from trained instinct. I twisted my arm out of his grip, immediately threw a punch toward their stomach. But they weren't there, instead by my side, yanking back my hair. Something strong – chloroform – was being pressed to my nose and mouth. I struggled, holding my breath, but I had to give in and inhale.

My eyes rolled back after a couple of seconds, and I only remembered being thrown over a broad shoulder as I lost consciousness.

* * *

I soon learned that, in typical villain fashion, my kidnappers were trying to lure in Sherlock by taking someone they thought that he loved. And at the same time, they were also attempting to gather information.

I was absolutely terrified on the first day, as I was strapped to a chair in a dark basement that smelled of mould. My mind raced for anything, absolutely any small comfort to reassure me – and it found that cold afternoon, after training with my father, when he broke the silence. He told me that he would come for me, that he would save me.

And I held onto those words. I gripped onto them with all my strength as they demanded information that I didn't have. I clung onto them as they threw me on the ground so hard that I saw stars and felt warm blood dripping down through my scalp.

_"__Remember that I'll come for you, no matter what."_

I clutched at them, slipping away from those words on the third day when they took my leg in their hands, threatened to break it – painfully, slowly – if I didn't give the what they wanted. I breathed in, breathed out, told them that Sherlock Holmes would kill them if they did that. And that I didn't know anything, again.

They did it anyway. I didn't truly believe that they would be so cruel as to go that far.

My screams echoed up, around they basement they were holding me inside. "I-I don't know anything," I cried, voice catching with agony. I was still tied to the chair, left there with blood-matted hair and a leg that dangled uselessly below the knee. Tears dried into shiny marks on my cheeks.

"Sherlock- I- they're hurting me so bad," I sobbed pitifully into the phone that they held to my ear, probably desperate to lure him after four days and no sign of him. The other end of the line was silent for the moment more I got to listen, and then they took it away to tell him just what they were going to do to me. I couldn't hear whether or not he was planning to come for me.

And then on the fifth day, I gave up.

He wasn't coming. He truly didn't love me. I'd thought that at the least he would come to solve the case, to defeat the criminal. But that wasn't happening. Sherlock had abandoned me.

I sat on that chair, broken beyond just my battered body. He didn't love me, I was worthless to him. Just a child he'd inherited because there was no-one else to take her. I was interesting to him for a while, when I was small. But now that I'd grown and Moriarty had died, he drew away. It was like he was a child who had grown tired of me, an old toy.

On the sixth day, I was held up against a wall by my neck, a knife pressed against my ribs. Just above my heart. I was told that they didn't really want to kill me, but that I'd be too much trouble for them if I was set free. I begged them not to do it, but their ambition had been to lure my father into this place – not to be caught on the outside. And I guess they knew as well as I that he wasn't coming for me. Besides, judging by the green spreading from a gash on my arm, the leg dangling motionlessly below me and the constant pounding in my head, I wouldn't make it very far.

"Come on, girlie, you have to know something," he spat in my face. "May as well tell me – maybe I'll change my mind." I shook my head desperately, just croaked back the truth that I'd been telling them the whole time.

"I don't know anything at all."

"Then your last chances are up." I sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. This was it, then. I never thought that I'd meet my death in this way. The sharp point pressed between my ribs. I closed my eyes, tried to calm my mind and relish the last few seconds of my body working valiantly to keep me alive. And as the door was kicked down, the knife was shoved through my chest and twisted coldly.

White-hot pain shot through my entire being as I tried to scream, only to be unable to do so. I shuddered, crumpled to the floor when I was let go. My fingers curled around the hilt subconsciously, holding what had sealed my fate. I writhed, gasping. My vocal chords were making some sort of strangled yell. All around me there was panic, and thuds, and yells.

Then above me, a tall figure appeared. Someone with curly black hair and piercing blue eyes that looked straight at me. Then he was down to his knees, pants soaking up my blood, his hand slipping beneath my upper back and lifting me up. His angular features twisted into horror and shock, then pain and remorse.

"Rose- Please, no- Don't," he whispered, voice breaking as his fingers unfurled mine from around the weapon.

"Rosemary Holmes, I do- I do love you. I'm sorry…!"

His cry echoed around the concrete walls before he broke down into mournful wails. And maybe my soul wasn't quite so broken anymore.

"I love you too, Dad," I whispered, breaking off into a cough. The sharp metallic tang of blood took over my mouth. He looked down at me, his grip as tight as it had been after Mycroft died.

"You promised."

I looked up at him, and that's when he broke down. We both knew that I couldn't keep my promise of never leaving him. He hugged me close, leaned his head onto my shoulder, and rocked me slowly.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeated haggardly, despairing sobs following. I used the last of my strength to put my arms around his neck and gently hug him back. Tears were spilling down my cheeks too now. Black was creeping into my vision, and light-headedness was starting to take over and cloud my thoughts. I had to say what I needed to say before it was too late.

"It's okay, Daddy. I'm with you. It's okay," I breathed, feeling the last tears that I would ever shed drip down. He choked out for me not to go, that he could save me, then that I was going to be alright, because he would never let anyone harm a hair on my head and he loved me, so he wouldn't let me go if I didn't want to go, and he would always come for me, and that I promised, I promised, so I couldn't break my promise, I couldn't leave him, and we were going to get ice cream after all of this and he was going to chase me and grab me and swing me around and laugh with me and read to me because that's what we used to do…

"I will always love you," he finished in a whisper.

And then Death enclosed me in his loving embrace, and carried me away into the dark.

* * *

I do hope those who have followed this story over the past few days were satisfied with ending. I'm sorry it had to end with her death. ;-;

I'm thinking of writing a oneshot from Sherlock's POV after this. What are the opinions?


End file.
